


Scouts

by Doctorsloth33



Category: Ashlands - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14487255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctorsloth33/pseuds/Doctorsloth33





	Scouts

Pale gray sunlight had begun to creep its way along the horizon. Already astride his gelding, Staff Sergeant Anderson watched his men pack their bedrolls and saddlebags as they struck the previous night's bivouac. Nomad stood and waited patiently; occasionally he would reach down and pluck a mouthful of grass from the earth and chew it slowly. Anderson pulled a cord of tobacco from his shirt pocket, sliced off a chunk with his knife, and popped it into his mouth. Like his horse, he chewed slowly to warm and moisten the tobacco, and then leaned over to the side and spat. He peered over towards the horizon.

“Get a move on boys, we got a lotta miles to cover today.” Halfhearted grunts and groans answered him, along with a few muttered curses, but he noted the way the men’s pace quickened and stifled a grin.

_Ornery bastards._

Something crashed through the brush from behind and he turned in his saddle. The new Lieutenant, a fiery young man from Halifax county named Wesley, trotted up astride his jet-black Mustang from where he’d spent the night. His stallion snorted and pranced and tossed his head and Lieutenant Wesley struggled to rein in him in. He tried to curse quietly but failed, and the word billowed out as a puff of hot breath in the cold air and broke the stillness of the morning. Several of the men shook their heads, and a snigger was heard clear as a church bell. Wesley’s face reddened, and he gave the horse a cuff to the neck. The stallion, Traveler, snorted and pawed in protest but finally settled down.

“Mornin’ Ell-Tee.” The young man looked disheveled and half-frozen, his field jacket buttoned up to his chin. He lacked a scabbard for his rifle, so he propped it against his hip and held it by the magwell as he gathered himself.

“Sergeant.” He nodded and looked over the men. Some were in their saddles, with the rest not far behind. As if the silence made him uncomfortable, he queried, “How are the men?” Anderson leaned over and spat through his teeth.

“Ornery, saddle-sore, and full of complaints, same as always.” He gave the lieutenant a grin, “But they’re ready to ride.”

“Good, good.” Anderson could tell by his response and lack of expression that he hadn’t listened to a word. The young man laid his rifle across his saddle, pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket, and studied it. “We’re turning back towards the border to sweep sector Charlie 12, schedule has us arriving tomorrow morning. We’re working with the Brunswick Homeguard, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifles, callsign Raider-One.” He closed the book, returned it, and looked at Anderson. “Have we made radio contact with them yet?” The Sergeant knew they were too far away from the border to contact anyone but Headquarters but decided to go through the motions anyway.

“Corporal Johnson!” The wiry radio operator from Portsmouth with his big horseshoe moustache and dual cross draw pistols turned his piebald Racking towards them.

“Yea boss?”

“You call the 1st Rifles this mornin’?”

“Tried to. Nothin’ but static on their line.”

“You get to ‘em through HQ?” Johnson nodded.

“Yea boss.”

“They set?”

“Yea boss. Sector 12, they say they’ll be on standby come daybreak tomorrow.”

“Alright then.” Satisfied, Anderson turned back to the Lieutenant. “Work for you, El-Tee?” Wesley tapped his stallion with his heels and got close. Traveler threw his head around, snorted, and nipped at Nomad. The Sergeant’s horse lazily took a sidestep and continued to graze, unperturbed. When the young man spoke, his voice was lowered and his expression serious.

“I would prefer if you would address me as ‘Sir,’ or ‘Lieutenant’, Sergeant. It sets a bad example for the men for you to be so informal.” Anderson considered the young man coolly for a moment, then leaned and spat.

“Sir.” He gave Wesley a nod. After a moment, he added, “The men are ready, Sir.” The Lieutenant touched the brim of his Hardee, a hat normally reserved for formal dress, and sat tall in his saddle.

 _Real Southern gentleman we got here boy_.

“Move them out Sergeant.” Anderson wheeled around and put his heels to Nomad. He trotted beyond the men, pulled up beside the path, which was little more than a game trail, and bellowed the same orders he gave every morning.

“LOCK N’ LOAD!” He gave the charging handle on his weapon, a new pattern Aynor Arms steel battle rifle they’d been given to field test, an exaggerated slap that drove the bolt home with a meaty thunk. A chorus of well-oiled actions and bolts being cycled came back to him. It was like music to his ears. “MOVE OUT!” With the creak of leather, the clop of hooves, and the metallic chink of gear, the fifteen men and eighteen horses of 1st Platoon, 3rd Troop, 12th Scouts trotted off into the brush.

 

The platoon made good time through the wild country. Anderson moved up and down the line periodically to keep everyone together, and if it hadn’t been for their new Lieutenant it would have been an exercise of mere habit. Wesley, however, insisted on being near the rear just in front of the pack horses, as was standard according to the field manual, and Anderson worried that he might cause the line to extend too far. Young Wesley was an experienced horseman, that much was clear, but it was equally obvious that the stallion beneath him was not accustomed to a rider. Traveler constantly tossed his head, snorted, and tried to veer off the trail. If the line bunched up too close he would nip at the other horses, and sometimes refused to go until Wesley dug his spurs in. Anderson checked on him regularly but tried not to let on.

Aside from nearly being bounced from his saddle every few minutes, Lieutenant Wesley also had Johnson do a radio check with the 1st Rifles every half hour, despite the veteran operator’s advisement.

“Try to contact the Brunswick rifles again, Corporal.”

“Sure thing sir. Ain’t gonna reach them this far out though.” The Lieutenant’s face darkened.

“Just make the call, Corporal.” Johnson pulled the radio up onto his lap from the pouch on the side of his saddle and clicked over to the correct channel. He put the headset on over his flop hat and keyed the mic. Before he could get a word out Wesley interrupted, “Turn the speaker on first.” Johnson blinked a few times in confusion and released the key with a squelch.

“Sir, that’s absolutely outside of Standard Operating Procedures for a recon patrol.”

“Well _Corporal,_ ” the Lieutenant spat the word out, “this is _my_ SOP. Turn the speaker on.” Johnson did as he was bid and keyed the headset without further comment.

“Raider-One, Raider-One, this is Chaser-Blue, come in, over.” Static crackled over the speaker. He repeated the call three times, and each time the only answer was the hiss of dead air. Lieutenant Wesley finally relented, waved his hand dismissively and returned to the rear of the line. Johnson switched off the speaker and gave Anderson a look that said, “You believe this guy?” Anderson shook his head and spat.

1st platoon skirted two towns on their way back South since they had scouted them properly on the way up two days prior and found little evidence of raider activity. A few signs of squatters here and there, but nothing that suggested any party larger than three or four. Raiders rarely travelled in groups of less than ten and were never particularly subtle about their movements, whether in the bush or in towns. Around noon Anderson slowed the pace to an easy walk and the men ate their lunches in the saddle. Some cut open their government issued canned rations and dug in with government issued spoons. Pork n’ Beans was a favorite among them, alongside Potted Pork w/ Gravy, and, for some reason Anderson could never discern, Deviled Ham. Others ate jerky they’d brought from home, or fried hush puppies made the night before in their skillets. Anderson munched on biscuits his wife had made and sent with him. Wesley studied his notepad.

Nearly an hour after they’d resumed their marching pace the point man called the group to a general halt. The men stopped and allowed their horses to wander off the asphalt of the highway they were on to graze, and Anderson and Wesley rode up to the front. Private First-Class Boyd, a short and stocky black man from North Carolina, nodded to the pair when they reined up. He idly fanned his face with his flop hat.

“Are you hot?” Wesley’s face twisted up in disbelief and Anderson chuckled.

“Only man I ever seen sweat in a snowstorm,” he leaned and spat. “What we got, Boyd?” Boyd turned his horse and gestured to the pavement.

“Well Sarn’t, I’d say at least a dozen novacs came out of the brush here.” Anderson stood in the stirrups and observed the multitude of muddy boot prints on the road. He followed their line of travel with his eyes, down the shoulder, through the underbrush, and finally out into the dense mass of trees. He scanned the sea of brown, dotted here and there with green from evergreens that still had their color, and searched for a sign of anything out of place.

“What does ‘novac’ mean?” Anderson looked at the Lieutenant like he’d forgotten the man was there.

“Just something the men call the roving gangs, Sir.” Wesley opened his mouth to respond, but the Sergeant cut him off. “You see anything down in the trees Boyd?”

“Cain’t see too much from up here Sarn’t, even with the binocs.” Anderson nodded.

“Grab three men and ride down to see what you can see. No more than ten mikes, then we’re back on the move. Got it?”

“Roger that Sarn’t.” Boyd spurred his horse forward and called out for three riders, who trotted up immediately. Anderson and Wesley watched them disappear into the thicket. The Lieutenant sighed and turned Traveler around so he was face to face with the Sergeant.

“Sergeant,” Wesley paused and licked his lips, “I would appreciate being allowed to run my platoon.” Anderson pulled the cord of tobacco from his pocket and sliced a chunk off.

“Sir.” He popped the tobacco in his mouth. Wesley removed his gloves and flexed his fingers. He looked at the trees where the men had gone.

“I’m not trying to rock the boat Sergeant, I just need the men to respect me as their platoon leader.” He turned and looked Anderson in the eye. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course, Sir.” Anderson leaned and spat. Wesley waited for him to continue, but the Sergeant just sat and watched the tree line. The young man deflated a little, turned his horse, and joined him. They sat in silence until Boyd slipped quietly out of the trees. He was on foot and waved the pair down.

“What did you find, Private?” Boyd gave Anderson a sideways look before he answered.

“Well Sir, there’s a campsite about 30 paces in.” He waved behind him vaguely. “They were here this morning, and unless they’re getting real cozy in their beds there’s a dozen of them.” Wesley nodded and pondered for a moment.

“Did you see any signs of mounts?” Boyd shook his head.

“No Sir, just boots.”

“Excellent. Good work, Private.” Boyd nodded and started back for his mount. Lieutenant Wesley’s eyes lit up and he turned his horse with a flourish. “Seems like we have some quarry Sergeant.” For the first time since they’d met, Wesley had a smile on his face. He looked to Anderson like a fox who had caught the scent of a hen house. “Get these men back into formation,” with that he snapped the reins and kicked his heels and darted up the embankment. Anderson sat for a moment, then leaned and spat.

“Boyd,” Anderson called. The stocky Carolinian stopped and turned. “They try to cover anything up?”

“No Sarn’t, not at all.” Anderson nodded and spat again.

“Any signs of weapons?”

“We found a rag that looked like it’d been used to clean a bore out. Found some scratches on a tree that are about the right height for a front sight post as well.” Anderson spat again.

_Fuck._

“So, we have a group of novacs that’s experienced enough that they clean their weapons every night, but dumb enough to forget to cover their camp? That sound right to you?” Boyd took his hat off and wiped his brow as he considered.

“Well hell Sarn’t, when you put it that way it sounds like they want to be found.” Anderson nodded and spat again.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Silence fell, and the two men exchanged an uneasy look. “Saddle up and get back to the road.” He kicked Nomad with his heels and climbed the shoulder. When he cleared it, he found the Lieutenant and made a beeline for him. The stallion could sense his rider’s excitement and chomped at his bit and whinnied. Wesley, oblivious to being bounced around, was on the radio with headquarters. When he reigned up the Lieutenant held up a finger.

“Roger Chaser X-ray, we’ll keep you apprised of the situation. Chaser Blue, out.” He handed the set back to Johnson without so much as a glance and looked at the Sergeant with boyish excitement in his eyes. “Headquarters said we were clear to engage, Sergeant.” He pulled his notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Can we have a word, Lieutenant?” Wesley continued to stare at his book.

“In a moment Sergeant, I need to consult my…”

“Now. It’s urgent _._ ” Wesley’s head whipped up from his notes, his eyes wide in disbelief, mouth a tight line. “Sir.” Anderson added.  He jerked his head to the opposite side of the road, turned and walked Nomad over. Wesley snapped his book shut and, without comment, followed the Sergeant over. When they had sufficiently gotten out of earshot of the men, his temper finally came out.

“What is so damned _urgent_ ,” he snarled, “that you need to disrespect me in front of the men _Sergeant?”_ Wesley spat the word out as if it were distasteful.

“You don’t have to keep remindin’ me of my rank, _Lieutenant._ ” Anderson struggled to keep his voice down, but there was no way to disguise his anger. “I know this is your show.” He leaned and spat. “But it’d do you a lot of fuckin’ good if you’d listen to what I have to say. I been doin’ this shit a lot longer than you have.” Wesley, taken aback by Anderson’s rage, sat tall in his saddle, but he remained silent. The Sergeant kneaded the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.

_Least your Daddy taught you to know when to shut the fuck up._

 He blew out a long breath and then continued much more softly.  “I think we’re being baited here.” The hateful glare from the Lieutenant softened a little.

“What do you mean, baited?” Anderson wiped spittle from his chin hairs.

“I mean it’s real damned odd that some novacs who are disciplined enough to clean their weapons daily would be dumb enough to leave such an obvious trail. It’s never this easy to find a campsite, even when it’s amateurs.” He paused, glanced at the men, and lowered his voice even further. “I think whoever is ahead of us wanted us to find that trail. I reckon we’ll ride right into an ambush, we follow it.” He leaned back and let his shoulders relax. Wesley sat and maintained a thoughtful silence. Anderson could see the gears turn in the young man’s mind. After an agonizing moment, Lieutenant Wesley looked up at him, expressionless. He saw the promise of medals and “attaboys,” in the Lieutenant’s eyes, and knew the answer before it came

“Your advisement is noted. We’re going to follow and eliminate the enemy Sergeant, as is our mission.” Wesley’s tone was flat. “Get the men back into formation and move them out.” Anderson nodded, and Wesley trotted off toward the road. He watched the Lieutenant’s back as he rode away, and idly tapped his fingers on the butt of his pistol.

_Could take care of it right now. Easy, no questions asked. Men won’t say shit and you know it._

 He considered for a moment, then leaned and spat and gave Nomad a tap with his heels.

 

1st platoon moved along at “tracking” pace, a slow walk that just barely outpaced the natural speed a man could travel, for the rest of the day. They stopped occasionally for their dedicated tracker, a rangy and bearded Virginian they simply called “Buck”, to stop and examine a spot on the side of the road. He would look at it this way and that, walk around a few times, and then leap back in the saddle and wave the patrol on. Signs were sparse, but clear; a discarded cigarette, a puddle of urine, a print on the side of the shoulder where someone had slipped.

  _Like someone’s laying out breadcrumbs for us_.

 He watched the Lieutenant, who had moved much further up in the line, and his unease grew. Every time Buck came back from a spot he had searched with an affirmative, the Lieutenant’s eyes lit up and his demeanor grew lighter and cheerier.

 _He’s gonna float off and leave us all behind, this keeps up_.

They plunged onward toward the South for hours, the trail they followed lead them right towards sector C-12. It couldn’t have been a more perfect situation in the eyes of Wesley. It was too perfect in the mind of the veteran Sergeant. Soon after they crossed the invisible line that marked their passage from 13 to 12, the paved highway took a sharp turn towards the East, while a smaller path continued off into the bush to the South. 1st Platoon halted, and Anderson sent out three riders to search the area in a clover-leaf pattern. The sun had begun to sink in the sky, and he didn’t want to ride over a bunch of armed bandits as they set up camp. Two came back almost immediately, the two he’d sent to the East and West, without any news. The third returned a few moments later and called out that he’d found their trail along the path.

“Excellent,” Wesley exclaimed. He clapped his hands together and smiled. “We may catch up to them before the day is out!” Anderson quickly trotted up beside him and leaned in.

“We need to set camp soon, Sir.” Wesley regarded him coolly, and gave him an inquiring, if smug, look. Anderson turned his head and spat, then continued, “Soon as we get on ‘em we’ll have to start harryin’ ‘em, and I don’t fancy crashin’ through the bush in the dark.” The young man towards the trail and considered. After a moment he turned his attention back to the Sergeant.

“What if they push on through the night, Sergeant? They’ll gain a lot of time on us.” Wesley’s voice was low, and his question seemed genuine, much to Anderson’s surprise.

“Then we won’t have much problem catchin’ them in the mornin’, Sir, cold, tired and sore.” He pointed out at the trees and the small trail that lead through them. “They hump through that shit tonight and we won’t need to drive ‘em to the 12th.” He looked Wesley in the eye, “We’ll just ride right over ‘em.” Anderson saw the fire in the young man’s eyes flare, watched a smirk creep across his face. _He likes the sound of that, don’t he?_ The Lieutenant nodded after a moment.

“Alright Sergeant, have the men set camp.”

“Yessir.” Anderson wheeled Nomad about and gave the order to bivouac. His shoulders relaxed a bit, and he breathed a sigh that could almost be called relief.

_Well ol’ boy, you did it. At least you ain’t gonna die in the dark._

 

Daybreak found them cold and stiff. No fires, no pup tents, no pads, no hammocks. They slept fully dressed minus their boots. Rifles stayed in the scabbards unless on guard duty, and pistols stayed loaded and close to hand. They mounted up in silence and rode on while they nibbled on breakfasts of cold biscuits, jerky, and water. The pace quickened to just below a trot, and merely an hour on they found where their prey had slept for the night. Coals still glowed in the fire pit they’d dug. Wesley had Johnson do a radio check with the 12th and nodded in approval when he received the thumbs up from the radio man.

“Well Sergeant, looks like this is it.” Anderson nodded. He leaned and spat, even though he had no tobacco in his mouth.

“That it is, Sir. You ready for it?” Wesley took a deep breath, nodded, and straightened up in the saddle. He leaned over with a wry grin.

“I’m sure you won’t let me make an ass of myself, Sergeant.” It took Anderson a moment to realize it was a joke. He blinked a few times in disbelief.

_Already did a fine a job of that yourself, you weasel-faced prick._

“You’ll do fine, Sir.” He began to pull away but couldn’t resist the opportunity. He turned and gave the young Lieutenant a half grin. “Just remember to send some outgoing when we start getting incoming.” It was the same thing he told every green Private that showed up fresh from the rifle companies. Wesley chuckled and nodded, and they pushed forward.

_That’s the way ol’ boy, ain’t no sense in bein’ pissy about it now. Play nice and push on, maybe he’ll put you in for posthumous medal._

 

Anderson reckoned it to be two hours before noon when the signal, three fingers pressed horizontally to the left shoulder, was passed to him down the line. He noticed the Lieutenant bristle a bit, three fingers horizontal meant “Sergeant,” one vertical meant “Officer.” They both rode up to the front of the patrol, where Boyd stood off to the side of the path. His breath billowed away from him in great big plumes, but his skin still shined with sweat. Sergeant Anderson surveyed the trail, and immediately saw the problem. The path narrowed significantly and began to rise up a great hill. It was rough ground as well and, if they let it, would put them in a neat little line.

_I might try and find a better spot, I had time. Then again, this is as good a place as any to bushwhack somebody been crawlin’ up my ass._

“Why are we stopped, Private?” Wesley’s voice snapped Anderson from his thoughts.

“Sir?” The Lieutenant looked annoyed.

“Why are we stopped?” Boyd shrugged and wiped his face.

“Danger area, Sir.”

“How’s that?”

“We get bottled up on the path here, they have the high ground and chop us up when we get close.” Wesley shifted in his saddle.

“You see any evidence that they know we’re following, Private?” Boyd shook his head.

“No Sir, no signs. Just a feeling.”

“A feeling Private?”

“Yessir.” The Lieutenant huffed dramatically.

“The Army doesn’t run on feelings, Private.” He looked at Anderson. “Get us moving again, Sergeant.” He turned and walked his stallion back to the line. Anderson gave Boyd a smack on the arm.

“Hold tight for now.” Boyd nodded, and Anderson caught up to the Lieutenant. He cleared his throat and spat. The Lieutenant sighed.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Boyd’s been point man for this platoon for over a year, Sir. If he’s got a feeling, I say we listen to it.”

“You get the same feeling?” Anderson nodded.

“Yessir. I do.” The pair stopped and he continued. “Let me spread the men out in the bush at least. It’ll slow us down a little, but it won’t take much to make it up.” The Lieutenant wasted no time in consideration. It was clear he wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“Alright Sergeant, do it quickly and let’s get moving.” The young man’s tone was serious, his face an obvious facade of calm. Anderson touched the brim of his hat, then spun his horse around and quickly, yet quietly, got the men into formation. They set off in a shallow wedge at an extremely cautious walk. 1st platoon picked its way through the dense thicket, their nerves on edge. Every noise, be it the crack of a stick, a shift of leaves, or the drop of an acorn caused them to jump and tighten their grips on their rifles. Time passed agonizingly slow as they climbed the hill, and Anderson fretted to and fro along the line. He made sure that each man was wary and that no two covered the same sector. When he came upon Boyd for the third time, he realized suddenly that they were upon the crest of the hill. He gave the signal to halt, stood next to the sweaty point man in the tree line beside the path, and considered the ground before them. The pair exchanged a quick conversation in hushed tones.

“Boyd.”

“Yea Sarn’t?”

“You still got that funny feelin’?

“Yea Sarn’t.” Anderson resisted the urge to spit. He shook his head instead.

“Me too.” He blew a long breath through his nose and scanned the trees. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden crash to their left snatched their attention. Two steel battle rifles rose in unison. Anderson _tsked_ when he saw who it was.

Young Wesley, inexperienced and impatient, had broken cover and stood astride his magnificent stallion dead in the center of the road. A soft beam of sunlight wreathed the rider and his mount in an otherworldly glow. Lieutenant Wesley looked every bit the picture of a gallant cavalry officer.

_Fuckin’ idiot._

“Sergeant,” he called, “We’re clear, get the men back-” The first burst of machine gun fire shattered the quiet serenity of the forest and stole the words from Wesley’s throat. It was a short burst, just enough to get the range right, and four rounds zipped into the dirt just in front of Traveler. Wesley quickly dug his heels in; the boy’s instincts were good, but his horse was too wild, too untamed. The big black stallion screamed and reared, and the second, much longer string of rounds from the machine gun ripped into horse and rider alike just as his hooves touched the ground. All at once the rest of the hidden enemy added the rhythm of their guns to the MG’s staccato song of death, and the world exploded into fire and steel.

 

In one practiced motion Anderson slid from his saddle, grabbed Nomad by the bit, and dragged them both to the ground. Bullets zipped and snapped all around him as he fought to keep his terrified horse down in the safety of the ditch. He could see the whites of Nomad’s eyes, and the animal lifted him a few inches off the ground before he managed to man handle him back down. Branches exploded away from trees and fell, splinters and chunks of bark pelted them. He heard Boyd grunt and then cry out and watched as the point man’s mount rose and was immediately shot to pieces. It was horrific. The animal got no more than four steps into a full-blown dash before rounds started to slam into his body. His knees trembled, and his body shuddered, but the terrified animal pushed on weakly and made it to the road before a bullet mercifully caught him in the head and dropped him. Anderson turned his attention back to Nomad, who still struggled beneath his grip. He lifted the horse’s head and slammed it into the ground.

“STOP!” He barked with his full command voice and repeated the action a few times before the horse calmed. “Thatta boy,” he cooed softly and stroked the gelding’s face. “Stay down.” When he released the bridle, Nomad blew and snorted but stayed down.

_Stupid._

    Anderson bellied up to the edge of the ditch and began to return fire. Boyd was there as well, and he saw that tears streamed down his face. The stocky Carolinian fired on full automatic at anything he caught a glimpse of.

    _Get your ass up, cain’t organize nothin’ from inside a ditch._

_Right, right. Get a base of fire set up, send an assault team._

_Don’t forget to call somebody and tell ‘em we’re gettin’ shot to shit._

_Right._

He looked toward where the Lieutenant had fallen.

    _What about him?_

_Dead, most likely. Worry about it later._

He poked his head up and scanned the part of the line he could see. His men were in cover and they poured fire back at the enemy. The two elements seemed about equal in number, the main difference in firepower being the machine gun.

    _Need to get ours set up, even it out a little._

He tensed his muscles to leap from the ditch the second the MG stopped to reload when, almost by happenstance, he looked over at where Traveler lay. The horse was stone dead, that much was certain. He almost looked away before movement made him do a double-take. Young Wesley had begun to drag himself, one-handed, towards the ditch on the other side of the road.

    _Well, shit._

    A round smacked right in front of the Sergeant’s face and made him wince. He slid back into cover to reload his rifle and grabbed Boyd by the sleeve and pulled him in close.

    “Go to first squad, tell Johnson to get on the horn and call us some support!” He did his best to scream over the cacophony and Boyd craned his neck to put his ear almost to Anderson’s mouth. “Tell him he’s got 1st squad, and to set up a base of fire! And for fuck’s sake get the MG up!” Boyd nodded and shouted something Anderson couldn’t really make out. The two waited, rifles clutched to their breasts, muscles coiled. It took a second for Anderson to register that the MG had stopped firing, but when he did he bellowed “GO!” and the two leapt out of the ditch and took off at a sprint.

 

    Bullets nipped at his heels and snatched at the empty air around him. He crouched and made a beeline for the dead stallion.

    _Gonna get your dumb ass shot._

    Without pause or a break in stride, the big Sergeant reached down as he passed Wesley and snatched the Lieutenant’s web gear in an iron grip. He jerked the young man around and drug him into cover.  They piled into the ditch in a heap just as the machine gun raked the ground around them. Anderson scrambled up and prepared to run once again now that he had gotten Wesley into cover, when he the young man grabbed the Sergeant’s shirt. He looked up with difficulty and his voice was weak when he spoke.

    “I fucked up Sergeant.” Anderson knew he shouldn’t feel annoyance, but he did.

    “Shut up Lieutenant. Stay right here, I’ll send the medic.”

    _Assuming, of course, that he ain’t dead._

“No, no, I fucked up.” Wesley shook his head. “I should’ve listened.” Anderson grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled the pistol from his belt, and stuck it in his hand.

    “You see anybody that ain’t wearin’ this uniform, you give ‘em all six. You hear me?”

    “Yeah Sergeant, I hear you.” With that, Anderson crested the ditch and sprinted away.

   

    Things moved very quickly once Anderson got 2nd squad organized. Corporal Johnson had done exactly what he’d asked, and the fire that came from the opposite side of the path got the enemy’s head down. Slow, aimed shots came from the rifles, their own MG exchanged tracers with the raider’s, and every now and again a 40mm grenade would shake the forest with a deep boom. Anderson found one of the pack horses since he didn’t fancy a run back across the road to retrieve Nomad, cut its extra load loose, and laid in the brush alongside his men. They waited for the MG to reload to make their break but when the platoon’s grenadier put an excellent shot right on top of its position, they seized the opportunity.

    “GO GO GO!” 2nd squad wrenched their horses up from the earth and leapt into their saddles. Spurs dug in and they flew away at breakneck speed. Every rider had his rifle in hand and stayed as low in the saddle as he could. Anderson led the squad out into the forest and then cut back in a great winding turn that led them headlong into the enemy’s flank. When they began to receive sporadic fire, they slowed their horses only a little and slid from their saddles. The last man kept his speed and drove the horses back the way they’d come. The six who remained bounded towards the enemy in twos and threes and kept pressure and constant fire on them. Caught between two elements, Anderson watched the enemy try to maneuver, but it was too late. Two men broke cover and ran towards them to take up position. Anderson put his front sight post on the first and squeezed the trigger three times. The big rifle bucked with satisfying weight and the man folded in half at the waist. The second was gunned down by three different shooters and spun wildly before he fell.

    They reached grenade range without any further resistance, and Anderson knew it was over. Twelve grenades detonated in rapid succession on the enemy position, and those who weren’t caught in the blasts were driven out from their cover and cut down by 1st squad. Anderson pulled the pin and lobbed a red smoke grenade as far as he could towards the other squad’s position, waited thirty seconds, and then waved his men forward into the enemy position.

 

    The scene was horrendous. Many of their grenades had found soft flesh to mutilate, and bodies torn apart by the explosions littered the ground. They found the MG or, rather, what was left of it. Mangled metal that still smoked in the cold air sat in front of a corpse that lacked most of its face and an arm. The Sergeant threw a second smoke grenade, this one green, to signal the all-clear. 2nd squad picked their way amongst the dead in the sudden silence that seemed deafening. A solitary shot would ring out occasionally as the men found a wounded combatant; it was a well-known secret that the Army of Southern Virginia rarely took prisoners. Anderson slumped down on a half-rotten log and hurled. He vomited twice, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then cut off a slice of tobacco and popped it in his mouth.

    _Well ol’ boy. You did it. Might get that medal after all._

Anderson felt something wet on his left hand and tried to wipe it away on his pant leg. When he felt the wetness there as well, he looked down and saw that his ring finger, along with the dull wedding band that had been on it, was gone from the second knuckle up. He hadn’t even felt it. It burned fiercely now, and he clenched his teeth and hissed at the discovery.

    _Oh, Martha’s gonna love that._

 He pulled the field bandage he wore like a scarf from around his neck off and wrapped the hand tightly. He leaned forward and peered around on the ground for a few minutes in search of his missing digit. When he didn’t see it, he blew out a deep breath, spat, then stood and headed back to the ditch where he’d left the Lieutenant.

 

Wesley had taken three rounds; two in his shoulder and one that shattered his pelvis. If he was aware that his glorious career in the cavalry was over, he showed no sign of it. Doc Harrigan had given him the good stuff, and he smiled lazily at Anderson when he approached.

“Eyy Sarn’t.” Anderson squatted down next to him.

“Hey El-Tee.” Wesley’s smile widened, and he wagged a finger.

“You. YOU. Yer all rite Anershon.” Anderson grinned despite himself.

“Ain’t so bad yourself, Sir.” A hand on his shoulder made him turn his head. Doc looked down, concerned.

“Hell happened to your hand Sarn’t?” He held it out the way a newly engaged woman did to show off her ring.

“Seem to have lost it.” Doc shook his head, unamused.

“Lemme look at it.” Anderson turned his head and spat.

“Nah, s’alright.”

“At least lemme give you something for pain.” The Sergeant gave Harrigan a skeptical look and pointed at Wesley, who seemed to have just discovered his hand for the first time.

“Why, so I can be like him?” He shook his head. “I’m good Doc, go help somebody that needs it.” Doc shrugged and turned, but Anderson caught his pant leg and lowered his voice. “How many KIA?” Harrigan’s face looked pained.

“Four. At least eight wounded. Nine including you.”

_Fuck._

Anderson nodded and let go and Doc hurried off.

“Well El-Tee, hell of a thing innit?” Anderson rubbed his face and spat. He was suddenly bone-weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl in some deep dark hole and forget about the world. Wesley looked up and put a hand on the big Sergeant’s knee. His face was drawn but serious, and he seemed to have sobered quickly. His voice was clear but shaky.

“You saved my life Anderson.” He swallowed with great difficulty. “Hell, you saved all our lives to hear Doc tell it.” He pushed himself up on an elbow with a mighty effort despite Anderson’s _tsk_ ing. “I’m putting you in for the CGM when we get back to the rear.”

_Confederate Gallantry Medal, not too shabby ol’ boy._

Anderson shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Wesley cut him off. “Oh, fuck you Sergeant, don’t give me some tearful speech about how you don’t deserve it or don’t want it.” He eased himself back down and looked Anderson dead in the eye, his face stone serious. “I almost got my dick blown off, my horse got shot out from under me, and THEN I almost bled out in a ditch. So, you can do me a fucking favor and let me stick a tiny little bit of metal to your fucking ornery ass chest.” Anderson blinked rapidly, stunned to silence by the barrage. A grin crept across the Lieutenant’s face, and soon the pair burst into laughter. Anderson wiped a tear from his eye after a long while.

“I think you’re gonna do alright El-tee.” Wesley smiled, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. Anderson sat for a few more moments in silence. He leaned and spat, then stood and went to return to work.

“Anderson?” He turned back around.

“Sir?”

“What the fuck are _novacs_?” Anderson grinned again.

“ _Northern Virginian Cock-Suckers_ , Sir.” He spun on his heel and left the Lieutenant to his laughter.


End file.
